


What comes after

by Thatswherethelightgetsin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatswherethelightgetsin/pseuds/Thatswherethelightgetsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of what happens after the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

Title: What comes after, part 1/6  
Summary: A look at what happens after the fall – spoiler for all of series 1 and 2  
Betas: Thank so much to the wonderful justbeaqueen10 for her help and comments  
Rating: PG-13 for the angst  
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock  
Wordcount: Just under 12,000 in total  
Warnings: None  
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this and the characters and settings belong to BBC/ACD  
Notes: This first chapter looks at John and Mycroft but expect others in later chapters. This story is complete, but I’m going to post a chapter each day or so, so as not to spam you all.

The first time it happened, John closed the door in his face. The second and third time too.

The fourth time Mycroft Holmes knocked on the door of 221B Baker Street John sighed heavily and walked away back up the stairs leaving the door open.

Mycroft appeared framed in the doorway of the flat a few moments later. John turned away from him and stared out of the window. They stayed like that for what felt like hours but was probably only a few moments.

“The rent’s been paid,” John said eventually, turning around.

Mycroft stared impassively at him.

“In full,” John went on. “Until the end of next year.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose but otherwise he remained perfectly still and silent.

John huffed in annoyance. “Feeling guilty, Mycroft?” he snapped. “It was you, wasn’t it?” When Mycroft made no sign of answering John’s anger boiled over. “I said, are you feeling guilty about playing a big part in making your little brother jump from a roof and kill himself?”

Mycroft flinched. It was hardly noticeable; a tiny flicker of his eyes, but the reaction surprised John so much that his anger drained away. He was suddenly exhausted.

Mycroft was arranging his umbrella and briefcase and sitting down, clearly trying to gather himself. “Thirsty, actually,” he said, as though John hadn’t mentioned Sherlock at all. “Some tea, perhaps?”

John didn’t have the energy to shout. The reminder of Sherlock and Mycroft’s part in the whole mess made him feel about a hundred. He sank down into a chair opposite Mycroft and sighed. “Get your own damn tea,” he snapped, but he sounded as tired as he felt and Mycroft ignored him.

***

The next time, Mycroft didn’t ask for tea. He didn’t say anything at all. He just sat silently, staring at the wall while John stared over his shoulder into the kitchen.

The fifth time John gave in and made some tea.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. His hand didn’t shake as he took the cup. But, John could see how tense his hand was as he grasped the handle. He wondered how much will power it took for Mycroft to stop his hand shaking as he took tea from his dead brother’s flatmate.

John said nothing but sat down opposite him. They sat in silence until the tea was finished and Mycroft rose and left without a word.

When Mycroft appeared again two weeks later it was raining. He carefully folded his umbrella down and placed it next to the door. John made the tea and pretended not to notice Mycroft watching him from the living room.

His presence in the flat was almost overpowering. John couldn’t remember the last time someone had been to visit him. Months maybe. People didn’t seem to like the flat. What Mrs Hudson hadn’t packed away of Sherlock’s things were still strewn around the place. John couldn’t bear to move them and he’d snapped at Mrs Hudson when she mentioned it.

Mycroft look tired and pale when John handed him the tea. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t care about the answer. They drank in silence.

 

***

They always drank in silence. John wasn’t sure how many times Mycroft had appeared at his door. He came in and drank his tea and then he left. There was no discernable pattern to when he would turn up. Sometimes it was three times in a week, sometimes a month would pass. It was always at odd times, too. Once it was half passed two in the morning. John didn’t comment on it. He was awake. Mycroft probably knew he wasn’t sleeping.

Mycroft didn’t try and ask questions or give advice. He just sat there and looked over John’s shoulder at the stag’s head. Then he left.

John was too angry with him to speak. He was angry all the time now. At everything. At Sherlock, the police, the press, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, the general public, Moriarty. Sherlock. The sheer enormity of the injustice of it all took his breath away. He didn’t know where to even begin. So, he pushed it down and carried on. Exactly like his therapist told him not to.

***

A few weeks later John broke. “Can’t you do something instead of sitting there like some sort of very neat scarecrow?”

Mycroft surveyed him over the brim of his cup. “I can do a great many things, Dr Watson. A great many things. To which particular ‘thing’ were you referring?”

“Clear Sherlock’s name.” It sounded like a demand. It was, he supposed.

To his surprise Mycroft smiled thinly at him. “Oh yes. The matter is, of course, in hand.”

“What? How?” John found he was sitting ramrod straight in his chair. His eyes fixed on Mycroft.

“I don’t run around London swishing my coat and attracting attention to myself.”

John’s nostril’s flared at the dig at Sherlock but he refrained from commenting.

“I am taking my time.”

John edged forward in his seat. “Richard Brook-” he began.

“Is dead,” Mycroft finished. “And so is Moriarty. He won.” Mycroft’s hands smoothed invisible wrinkles in his trousers. “That was his aim all along: for Sherlock to fall.” There was no shake in voice as he said it. Like there was no shake in his hand when he took the tea. “I always doubted that the lie would stand up to prolonged scrutiny. No, there will be a small retraction somewhere on page 14 of the Sun. A quiet clearing of criminal records. Even the hitmen hired to watch you, Mrs Hudson and Detective Lestrade will be taken care of. Eventually.”

John stared at him. Donovan must feel awful. Good.

“Oh, his name will never be completely clear, of course. The majority will continue to believe what they do now.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile. “But, Sherlock will be, as you put it, cleared. I just needed time. Something, as you know, we were in very short supply of a few months ago. Time destroys everything, Dr Watson, even great lies.”

John gripped his cup until his knuckles went white. “Is this your way of asking for forgiveness? Clearing a dead man’s name?”

“No,” Mycroft answered softly. “I wouldn’t hope for that.”

John couldn’t think of an answer.

Mycroft didn’t speak again before he left.

***

“Do you miss him?” John asked weeks and many cups of tea later. They hadn’t spoken since Mycroft told him about clearing Sherlock’s name, but Mycroft didn’t seem surprised at the question.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered simply. He didn’t wait to finish his tea before he left.

***

“If this isn’t about making it up to Sherlock, then what is it about?” John placed his cup down and held Mycroft’s eye.

Mycroft stared back levelly. “What do you imagine it is ‘about’?”

“I think,” John said slowly, “you lied. The rent, clearing his name, even coming here to see me: it’s penance.”

Mycroft gave one of his almost-smiles. “And if it is, John? What would you say to that? A man trying to ask forgiveness of the dead?”

John was left without an answer again. But the next time Mycroft came he gave him some Rich Tea biscuits with his tea.

***

“Did you ever tell my little brother that you loved him?”

Mycroft had never initiated conversation before. It had been months since he first showed up and this was the first time he spoke without being spoken to first.

John choked on his tea.

Mycroft looked calmly at him and put his cup down. “I shall assume that is a no. Pity. I doubt he realised.”

John stared at him but Mycroft didn’t look away. “I...” John wasn’t sure what he wanted him to say. The denial had stuck in his throat. Emotions he hadn’t felt, hadn’t let himself feel, since he visited the grave, rose in his chest. His throat was tight. Eventually he managed, “I think you’re wrong.”

Mycroft picked up his cup again. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

***

John didn’t ask Mycroft if he thought Sherlock returned his feelings. He couldn’t bear to. He doubted any answer would make him feel better and Mycroft never brought the topic up again.

“Did you want to take anything?” John started, and then felt awkward.

Mycroft looked up from his cup. It was late: past midnight. John wondered if it was the visits, Sherlock or his job that made him look so pale and drawn. He wondered if he looked like that. Maybe that’s why everyone spoke so softly around him.

“Take anything?” Mycroft seemed genuinely perplexed.

“From,” John gestured around, “from the flat.” Mycroft continued to look at him. “Of Sherlock’s,” John finished and wished he hadn’t said anything.

Mycroft’s face became completely blank. John realised he hadn’t seen that expression since before the fall. He was surprised to find how much he disliked it. “I somehow doubt Sherlock would have liked that.”

John shook his head. He was angry again. “Well, he’s dead, so I guess it doesn’t matter much what he would have wanted. Do you want something or not?”

Mycroft put down his cup. “I should get back to the office.”

John felt his face grow hot. He knew it was irrational but he suddenly hated Mycroft’s passive acceptance of his anger. “For God’s sake, Mycroft! Just take something. Surely you’d like something to remember him by. You can’t keep coming here and sitting in his chair. It’s ridiculous. Can’t you see that? You couldn’t stand the sight of either of us before he died and now you can’t get enough.”

John realised he was shouting but Mycroft still wasn’t reacting. “Will you say something? Have some sort of reaction? For Christ sake, just do something.” John started forward, but Mycroft didn’t move. John stopped, not sure what he was doing. He felt his shoulders slump. “Get out.” His voice was quiet.

Mycroft picked up his things and went to the door. “Goodnight, Dr Watson.”

John watched the door shut. He picked up Mycroft’s cup and threw it against the wall.

***

Mycroft didn’t come back for a long time. John found himself making tea for someone he knew wasn’t coming. For someone he wasn’t sure he wanted to come. His therapist would have a field day.

When he did arrive neither mentioned the last visit. John felt suddenly relaxed when they sat down. He hadn’t really noticed that he wasn’t until he felt the tension leave him.

“You haven’t been returning your friends’ calls,” Mycroft said after a long moment.

John didn’t bother asking how he knew or denying it. “I don’t want to see them. Not yet.”

“And yet you let me in every time I arrive. And you actively dislike me.”

“No doubt that means something terrible about suppressed emotions and trauma in my childhood that I should be telling my therapist about,” he said.

Mycroft laughed. It was an odd sound and it took John a moment to realise why. It was a genuine laugh. Not sarcastic or annoyed. He’d never heard Mycroft laugh before. He didn’t know he could. He smiled in return and suddenly he was laughing too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. It felt nice.

Mycroft smiled at him when he left. That felt nice too.

He called Stamford the next day. Maybe it was time to leave the flat. 

TBC


	2. Molly

Sometimes she pretended not to know who he meant. “How’s who?”

A short pause on the other end of the phone. “John,” he said the name softly. She probably imagined the inflection, but she was sure he wouldn’t say her name like that.

“The same,” she said. There was a nagging in her stomach. Not awkward embarrassment for once. Guilt, probably. “No one’s really spoken to him since the funeral.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

She filled it like she always did. “I’m sure he’ll be okay. Mrs Hudson will look after him.”

“He’s back at the flat?” Sherlock sounded tinny and far away. He never told her where he was or if he was okay. She’d asked once how he was getting money for food and somewhere to stay. He’d brushed away the question like it was stupid.

“Not yet,” she answered. “He’s staying with his sister.”

“That won’t last,” Sherlock said.

“No,” Molly agreed, not sure what he meant, but she’d given up asking for explanations. “Do you need anything?” She finished the call as she always did, knowing the answer.

“No.” Another pause. “Keep an eye on... everyone.”

“He’ll be alright,” she said. The line went dead and she put down the receiver. She stood still watching it for a moment, wondering where he was and when he’d call again.

She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d ‘died’. He’d thanked her. He used his sincere voice. The one he hardly ever used when talking to her. She’d blushed and hugged him quickly before he had the chance to leave without letting her. He’d frozen and then put an arm awkwardly around her.

The full reality hadn’t hit her until after he’d left. She’d been so focused on helping Sherlock that she hadn’t thought about the people he was leaving behind.

It made her insides squirm and tears sting her eyes, seeing Mrs Hudson sobbing at the funeral, Detective Lestrade standing at the back, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there, and John. Poor John. He’d sat, back perfectly straight, staring ahead. He’d insisted on giving the eulogy. His words hitched and broke as he spoke. Molly wiped hot tears from her cheeks. She’d left quickly. She couldn’t bear to talk to any of them.

They’d all been so kind to her and she had betrayed them. It didn’t matter that it had been the right thing to do. She’d still broken their hearts.

Sherlock asked her to watch them. He’d pretended that it was because there was a possibility that Moriarty hadn’t called off his hitmen, but she knew that wasn’t true. Sherlock knew there was nothing she could do if confronted by a hardened killer. All three of the targets would be able to handle themselves better without her there. She was to watch to see that John didn’t relapse completely.

She saw him withdrawing from everyone. When no one was talking to him he tended to drift off and stare blankly ahead. He seemed lost.

She knew how he felt.

***

The phone rang again a few days later.

“The rent’s been paid on the flat.”

Molly sighed and closed her eyes. It was funny how life worked out. A few months ago the idea that Sherlock would even want her home number, let alone use it, would have seemed like a wild fantasy. Funny how you could get something you wanted so badly but in a way that made you want to curl up and cry.

“Has it?” she asked, her voice had lost some of the breathy excitement it used to have when she spoke to him. That was something at least. “By who?”

“Mycroft, I assume.” Sherlock’s voice held a tone she couldn’t work out.

“That’s nice of him.”

“Hmmm.” There was a long pause. “John should start working again. Talk to him, would you?”

Funny how things worked out.

****

She screwed up all her courage and called Mycroft Holmes.

There was a very long pause while someone found out if he wanted to speak to her. She had almost given up when: “Miss Hooper, to what do I owe this special delight?”

Molly’s heart was racing. She knew Sherlock would be so angry if he found out. But, she’d seen him at funeral. He’d spoken to everyone very politely and then he’d left. Molly was good at watching people. She saw the moments that people didn’t want anyone to see. She’d seen Mycroft looking at Sherlock’s grave and for a moment – it was such a short moment that it had hardly existed at all – his face was consumed with grief. And no one had noticed.

“I just,” she stammered and took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that... that I’m very sorry for your loss.”

There was a long silence. She'd known that it would be a mistake, but no one had said it and she doubted that anyone ever would.

“Thank you, Miss Hooper.” The phone went dead.

The next day Molly received a substantial pay rise at work. It was almost certainly a coincidence.

****

She wouldn’t go to the flat. She hated seeing Sherlock’s dead life, perfectly persevered like he’d just gone to the shops. She hated imagining John living in a museum to someone who wasn’t coming back. They met at a cafe near St Barts. John hadn’t wanted to meet at the cafe inside the hospital.

They sat opposite each other and she bought them both lunch. She didn’t know what to say now he was here. She was just following orders. Sometimes she wished she could learn to say no.

John smiled softly at her. He looked tired. “How are you, Molly?”

With a start, she realised that they had both come there for the same reason: to comfort a broken heart. It made her eyes sting with tears to think that John would come here for that.

She couldn’t speak so she just nodded and smiled weakly at him.

John smiled back. “He,” he started and sighed heavily, his voice seemed strained. “He cared about you a great deal, you know.”

She just nodded. She couldn’t bear it.

“I know he wasn’t very good at showing it.” John played with the salt and pepper in the front of him. “He was bloody crap at it, in fact, but he did.”

A tear splashed down her cheek and she wiped it away. She gave up trying to speak and let John’s words of comfort wash over her. It was nice, even if he didn’t really understand.

No wonder Sherlock loved him.

As she left she leaned in close to the hug. John smelt of soap and his arms were warm around her. It felt nice.

****

Detective Lestrade was worse. Sherlock hadn’t asked her to go, but she had anyway. There was always something sad about Lestrade, but at the funeral he’d looked so completely alone. John hadn’t looked at him.

Molly went to his flat. She’d never have dared a few months ago, but she’d changed. She’d felt it the moment Sherlock had hugged her and left. She couldn’t go back to being like she had before.

“Molly,” Lestrade’s eyes widened in surprise. He was wearing a suit, but he’d removed his tie.

She smiled sadly at him. “I,” she started, not really sure what to say. “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

A strange expression passed over Lestrade’s face. “Come in,” he said after a moment.

She followed him into the tiny flat. She supposed his wife must have got the house in the divorce. There was a microwave meal on the table and the TV was on. He picked up the remote and turned it off.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked after they’d looked at each other over the sofa for a moment.

“No,” she shook her head, “I can’t stay. I just... I wanted to see if you were okay.”

He fidgeted. “Of course, I’m always alright.”

“Of course,” she said.

“They cleared his name.” He picked at a frayed thread on one of the buttons of his suit.

Molly nodded. “That’s good.”

He nodded. “Do you think he wouldn’t have-”

“I’ve got to go,” Molly said suddenly. This had been a terrible mistake. She wasn’t strong enough for this. She didn’t know why she’d come. She’d half imagined being able to wipe away the pain with a few carefully chosen words.

Lestrade blinked, surprised at being interrupted. He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, well, thanks for coming by.”

“He didn’t blame you,” she blurted out as she was heading to the door.

Lestrade looked at her and smiled thinly. “Well, that makes one person.”

Molly paused, unsure what to do or say. “No one blames you.”

She could tell by looking at him that that was a lie. It was the best she could do.

“I’ll come by next week,” she said opening the front door. “I can have that tea.”

Lestrade smiled at her, but he looked sad. She felt sick all the way home.

***  
“Did he look tired to you?”

Molly looked at the clock. “Sherlock, I have to go to work. I’m late.”

“You can be late. Did he?”

Molly sighed. “He’s heartbroken, Sherlock. He misses you. He barely leaves the house. His whole life was destroyed and he lost his best friend. So, no, I doubt he’s sleeping much. I’ve got to go. Goodbye.”

Her hand trembled as she hung up the phone. She’d hung up on Sherlock Holmes. She’d basically told him off. She smiled as she pulled on her coat and went to work.

TBC


	3. Sherlock

Sherlock was standing on the corner just under the awning of a shop. He looked over the rim of his collar and watched the man coming toward him down the street.

John looked tired. His eyes were puffy and tension radiated from every muscle as he walked.

Sherlock was used to watching people who didn’t know he was there. Since the fall he’d spent a lot of time perfecting the art. Not that John was very observant. Not when he didn’t think he needed to be.

He was careful to never be closer than 500 yards to him. Of course, he knew it was weakness that led him there. It was dangerous to be this close to him. But, he found he became restless if he didn’t see John at least once a week.

His skin started to itch and his chest felt heavy. He ignored it, concentrating on his work, on reading the papers for signs of Moriarty, of Richard Brook of... of anything at all. He found very little and so he paced his tiny room until he felt trapped. Then, he’d pull on his coat and go walking.

London wrapped itself around him like a cloak and he felt calm the moment the people in the street swarmed around him. He walked to John’s therapist’s office and waited. The walk took him two hours but he didn’t care. John didn’t arrive for another hour.

Seeing him walk down the street Sherlock felt himself relax. John wasn’t looking where he was going. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground. Sherlock stared. It had been two days since he shaved, his shirt hadn’t been washed for three wears, and he was favouring his left leg again, but only slightly. Sherlock let out a long breath. He stayed there until John left again and he watched him out of sight.

He was fine. John was fine. He was alive and he was fine. Sherlock thought it over and over as he walked home.

****

Molly seemed annoyed when he called. An unusual reaction. He supposed asking for her help had finally demystified him for her. He was no longer unattainable and strong. He needed her. He smiled without amusement. He called her anyway. She would always help him. Would always answer. But she no longer held the infatuation she’d cultivated for so long. He supposed he was pleased for her.

“He’s not really answering the phone at the moment,” Molly said, distractedly. “I called a few times. I’ll keep trying and maybe we can go for lunch.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Lunch. Make sure he eats something and find out if there’s been anything out of the ordinary happening.”

He thought he could hear a smile in her voice when she answered. “Out of the ordinary?”

“Anything that he can’t explain. New neighbours, strange phone calls.” A man was hovering near the phone box looking cautiously at him. Sherlock turned his back. “Do it quickly.”

“Do you need anything, Sherlock?” Molly always knew when he was about to hang up.

“No,” he said and slammed the receiver down.

****

Sherlock watched as Donovan left her office. She looked close to tears and judging by her shoes she’d been suspended.

Sherlock smiled. Mycroft was doing his job. Slowly, slowly he was unravelling Moriarty’s web. That look could only mean that all criminal charges against him had been cleared. His brother could be so delightfully predictable sometimes.

It would take months before Sherlock could fully unpick the web of deceit, the red herrings, and double bluffs. So far, he’d managed to discreetly tip the police off about three drug smuggling gangs, two wanted assassins and one rather ingenious murder.

He needed to keep working, though. Lestrade and Mycroft could only do so much on their own. He needed to make sure that he knew everything Moriarty had planned was either complete or fully stopped.

It had taken him two months to ensure that he was really dead. You could never be too certain. There hadn’t been time for a full examination of the body and Sherlock knew better than to trust something unless he saw it with his own eyes.

They weren’t safe yet. None of them were safe yet. So he had to keep working. He couldn’t go back. Not yet.

***

The next time he saw John, he was talking to Lestrade. Sherlock sat in the cafe across the street watching them talk. Lestrade looked pained and John looked tense. Sherlock was too far away to read their lips but gathered from their posture that it was nothing more than small talk.

Lestrade had called out to John as he drove passed and pulled up alongside him and gotten out of the car. Sherlock watched impassively as they struggled to find something to say to each other.

John looked angry but was trying not to. Lestrade looked a little pleading. It was rather pathetic really. John left quickly, leaving Lestrade looking after him.

***

The time after that John was shopping. He wasn’t taking his usual care over picking the best fruit. He was picking up apples at random and putting them in his basket. Then took microwave meals quickly off the shelves without really looking at them.

John took out his phone and peered at the screen. Sherlock couldn’t make out the name of the caller. John put it back in his pocket unanswered.

***

He only went to the flat once. It was probably the most wilfully stupid thing he’d ever done. John had left hours before, going to his parents’ house judging by his pockets. He’d waited until the house had been in complete darkness for two hours before he let himself in.

He walked around the rooms in the dark. He noted that his things hadn’t been touched. He ran a hand over a book left open on the table. This life seemed alien to him, now. He closed his eyes and imagined staying in the flat. Waiting for John to return home to find him sitting in his usual chair reading. He smiled as he calculated what John would do. Stammer, possibly a punch, perhaps a hug.

Sherlock only let himself imagine it for a moment. It wouldn’t help. He opened his eyes and continued to make his way around the room.

He frowned. Something was different. Something wasn’t quite right.

Mycroft. Mycroft had been here. Sherlock spun around, his eyes darting over everything. More than once. Possibly even a dozen times. He swallowed heavily. What was his brother doing here? Several possibilities ran through his mind. He moved to the kitchen.

He’d been having tea with John. Tea and sympathy? His eyes narrowed, his temper flaring for reasons he couldn’t quite work out. He was never one for introspection. There was no challenge. Besides, once he began working everything else was background. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Mycroft sitting with John. Talking to him. It wasn’t fair.

His temper subsided when he entered John’s bedroom. It was still and quiet and no one else but John had been in there for months. Sherlock considered sitting on the bed. He held himself tight, wrestling with the impulse. His hand twitched towards the bed. He held it there for a moment before pulling it back and balling his hand into a tight fist. He stood completely still and breathed the scent of John for a just a few moments before turning and leaving the flat.

***

Mycroft was smiling when he left 221B Baker Street. Sherlock glared at him as he turned to look up at the window. The light was still on, glowing warmly in the dark night. Sherlock didn’t move as he watched the car drive away.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing his brother smile like that before. He wondered what it meant. He wondered what John had done to make him smile like that. He stared up at 221B until all the lights went out.

***

It wasn’t until months afterwards that he started to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake. On a Monday afternoon he was standing surrounded by a group of German tourists watching John walk to the shops. Something had made him uncomfortable about the scene.

He went back to his flat and paced. Something was out of place. Had someone else been watching John? No, he’d have noticed right away. Was John ill? Sherlock stopped pacing with a start. No. No, John hadn’t looked ill. He’d looked decidedly well. He’d started sleeping again.

Sherlock shrugged. That was good. That was a good thing. But he didn’t believe himself.

***

He started working faster. The threads all seemed to be coming loose. Even the police were managing to make some arrests on their own.

In one week he managed to bring in eight criminal gangs connected to everything from drugs to selling dodgy TVs on stalls in Camden. He was getting close. He could feel that he was getting close. Maybe even just a few more months.

He could go back.

***

He watched as John went to see Lestrade. They went to the pub. Sherlock noticed that John smiled at the Detective’s attempts at humour.

He started following John more often. He was looking for work. It made Sherlock’s palms itchy.

The worst was Mycroft. He was still coming to 221B. John smiled when he opened the door. Sherlock couldn’t risk being there too often. He certainly couldn’t risk following his brother. Even his skills of blending into this background would only work for so long on Mycroft. Better to keep his distance.

But, he couldn’t understand it. Why was Mycroft visiting John? Surely they had nothing to talk about. Surely they couldn’t actually be enjoying each others’ company?

“You’re not helping,” he snapped at Molly.

She sighed. “Sherlock, this is what you wanted. John’s actually starting to heal. He’s seeing people again. He’s sleeping. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock slammed the phone down.

***

He hadn’t planned for this. “Stupid, stupid,” he berated himself.

He’d always planned to reveal himself to John in the midst of the other man’s grief, when he would be too happy and relieved that he was really alive, to be truly angry.

He’d never imagined the possibility that John would move on. That he might begin to forget about him. That would be unacceptable. If he had moved on, there would be no guarantee that if Sherlock was able to contact him again, that he would want to be contacted.

They may never be able to go back to what they had before. He may never be able to go back. Sherlock lay awake that night watching the shadows move across the ceiling and thinking about what John was doing.

Then he wondered what Mrs Hudson was doing. Would she be suggesting that John get another flatmate? Maybe she’d finally move out of London to be closer to her sister.

And what about Lestrade? Would he take a comfortable promotion and forget about the chase completely?

Sherlock hadn’t noticed that his bed was so uncomfortable before. Or how cold his room was. He needed to work faster.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

John was looking at Sherlock’s books. He picked one up and ran his hand gently down the spine. He half-smiled at the memory of Sherlock smiling at him, half hidden behind its pages. It closed with a snap and he put it on top of another book and another and another until all of them were in a pile on the kitchen table. Then, before he let himself think about it, he scoped them up. He walked quickly into Sherlock’s room and threw them onto the bed and closed the door.

Back in the living room, he felt suddenly panicky; the room looked too bare. His hands were shaking, which was crazy. He took out his phone and considered texting Mycroft. He wasn’t sure why the idea had popped into his head. He stared down at the blank screen for a full minute before carefully putting it back in his pocket. He didn’t want to text Mycroft. He felt that his visits were somehow a very private, delicate thing and he found he didn’t want to break the spell.

Instead he made dinner. His hands didn’t stop shaking all night.

***

“You’ve moved some of his books.” Mycroft said as he sat down. John tried to work out if there was any sort of emotion behind the words. He couldn’t detect it if there was.

“They were in the way.” His voice sounded hollow.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

John sat down on the sofa. He didn’t have the energy to put the kettle on.

Mycroft sat perfectly still for a few minutes. “Perhaps I will make the tea tonight.”

John watched him moving around the kitchen. So very different to his brother, but there was a likeness too. That self assured posture; every movement was measured and precise. Mycroft handed him a cup and took his usual seat on the other side of the room.

“I feel like a complete idiot.” John didn’t look at the other man as he spoke. “I just moved some books and suddenly I’m a nervous wreck.”

Mycroft didn’t speak for a long moment. “I believe there is going to be a coup in South America that could rock the whole balance of power in the region.”

John looked up at him.

“We could stop it.” Mycroft gently stirred his tea. “We have operatives in position awaiting orders.”

“What are you going to do?” John blinked, completely taken aback, both by the change in topic and that Mycroft was talking about his work.

“Nothing.” Mycroft took a sip of his tea. “We won’t do anything. I often find that doing nothing is the best course of action until you can see all ends.”

“Or who’s going to win,” John said.

Mycroft smiled. It was one of his rare, genuine smiles. “Precisely.” He paused again. “People do like to imagine that things happen in a predictable order. A coup takes place, the victor takes power and everything changes.”

John huffed a mirthless laugh.

“But, that is not the case. Just because things are moving in one direction that does not mean that they won’t suddenly revert backwards. Even if just for a short time. Intervening too soon or taking for granted a particular sequence of events is bound only to disappoint.”

John couldn’t help the little smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And lose quite a lot of trade partners, I imagine.”

Mycroft raised his eye brows and drank his tea. “Well, quite.”

***

Lestrade was working late. Well, he was in the office and it was late. He’d given up working hours ago. He just didn’t want to leave yet. His probation was coming to an end.

Sherlock might have been cleared of all charges, but that didn’t mean the investigation into his letting a member of the public be involved in his cases had stopped. It had been six months since Sherlock’s death. Nearly enough time for the others to stop looking at him like he was a traitor or an idiot. Nearly enough.

Given the circumstances, his truly amazing track record, and Sherlock being cleared (thank you Holmes the elder) they hadn’t sacked him outright. He wasn’t sure if that might not have been better. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. That was a stupid and melodramatic thing to think. He didn’t have anything left but this job. He loved this job.

True, it was just that little bit worse now Sherlock was gone. He missed the excitement of getting a text and knowing something extraordinary was about to happen. He missed John too, even Mrs Hudson. But, it had at least been busy. Since the death of Moriarty or Richard Brook, or whoever he was, the criminal underworld seemed to be in disarray. Gangs of smugglers, thieves, and murderers were all floating to the surface. It was all they could do to keep up.

At least Molly had been true to her word. She’d turned up at his flat the week after her first visit and had continued to come after that. Only once every week or so, but it was nice. She always seemed worried and skittish. But, she’d always seemed to be like that. He thought it was just Sherlock that brought it out in her. Apparently not. He was thinking about kissing her. Just thinking about it. One day. He thought it might be nice.

But for now, there was a pile of unsolved cases on his desk and no genius to turn up and solve it by looking at the suspects’ left index fingers. Good old fashioned police work, he told himself.

He sighed and began to tidy his desk, piling the files and placing them in a tray. He reached out and clicked the lamp off. He sat in the darkened office, lit from the orange glow of the streetlights outside. He sat there for a few moments before gathering the will to stand up and making his way home.

He cast an eye over Donovan’s empty desk on his way out. She had been looking for an excuse to move departments even before it became apparent she was wrong about Sherlock. Or, at least, partially wrong. She maintained to the end that he was a fraud even as all the criminal evidence fell apart. He was going to get around to replacing her. He really was. He just needed to finish a couple of the cases on his desk. Then he might have the time to look at some potential replacements.

For now, he liked working alone. He had the usual support when he asked for it, but he liked the quiet. He liked being able to think without anyone second guessing him.

He started when a car pulled up next to him and a woman got out. She was beautiful and her attention was entirely focused on the phone in her hand. “Get in, Detective.”

Lestrade did as she asked. “It’s been awhile since he sent for me. I thought it was John he sends for now.”

The woman didn’t answer him until they had set off down the street. “It’s you now.”

Lestrade sighed and didn’t bother making conversation for the rest of the journey. Mycroft was waiting in a disused warehouse.

“Bit over the top, all this, isn’t it?” Lestrade asked, gesturing at the expansive space.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Detective, thank you for coming.”

Lestrade didn’t point out how little choice he’d had. “Sherlock’s gone, Mycroft, I don’t see it matters much if you talk to me at my flat.”

“There are others I would rather avoid knowing that we have spoken, Detective.” He took out a file from his briefcase. “I wouldn’t usually bother you with something so minor, but in the circumstances...”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and took the brown file. He felt an odd sensation creep over him as he began to read.

“I’m sure you’ll understand my concern,” Mycroft said when he was nearly finished.

“There’s been a body found in Baker Street.” Lestrade flicked through the pictures. “No identification and...” he looked up in surprise.

Mycroft nodded his head once.

“No finger prints. The guy had no finger prints.”

“You may not recognise it, but it is the marker of Joseph Hollander’s associates.” Mycroft looked at his nails.

“An assassin?” Lestrade felt his heart begin to race. “In Baker Street.”

“A dead assassin, in fact.”

They were silent while Lestrade finished reading. “I’ll take a look into it.”

Mycroft nodded as though he knew this was going to be the outcome all along. Which he probably did.

“Do you think that Joseph Hollander is back in the country?” he asked.

Mycroft gave the slightest lift of his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

“And you think this is something to do with Sherlock?”

Mycroft looked almost uncomfortable. “I cannot see how it could be. But, there are others, those that are still with us, that have plenty of enemies in the criminal community.”

Lestrade blinked. Good god, Mycroft was worried about John. He didn’t broach the topic, knowing that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Like I say, I’ll look into it.” He half turned to leave and then turned back. “But why come to me? Don’t you have the whole of the Government at your service?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, “but this is a matter I would like to be kept private. If he is back in the country I do not want anything to alert him that we know about it.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Lestrade was nearly out of the door when Mycroft said softly, “Ah, I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to anyone inside or outside of the force for the time being.”

Lestrade smiled. Worried about John Watson and not wanting him to know about it. The world was a crazy place sometimes.

TBC


	5. The web unravels

Sherlock paced his room. Joseph Hollander. He knew of him, of course. But, why on earth was he back in the country and what did he want with John? He’d dispatched the assassin immediately. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to question him; he’d managed to take a capsule of poison before Sherlock got to it.

His heart was racing. His mind kept skitting around connections Hollander could have with Moriarty. The web was a very delicate thing. He could never be entirely sure what ripples he’d cause by putting pressure on any one point.

Had he somehow alerted Hollander to what he was doing? And would Hollander really care if he completely unravelled Moriarty’s vast empire? He’d long ago considered that Moriarty would have placed a series of traps in case Sherlock was somehow able to escape.

But, he thought he’d been making real progress. He was sure the empire was wobbling. Just a few more. Just a few more arrests and he’d be able to go back.

But he also simply couldn’t believe that it was a coincidence. That assassin had been following John. Obviously they hadn’t wanted him dead otherwise he would be. So they were watching him? Or protecting him. Or it was another threat. Or none of the above.

He checked into Hollander’s activities but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He seemed to be completely clean. He reached back further. Checked his assets.

Still nothing.

Sherlock put his coat on. He needed to check that John was alright.

***

“Someone’s following him.”

Molly bit her lip. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock sounded annoyed. She couldn’t be sure but there might also be a hint of worry. It made her insides squirm.

“What can I do?” She knew the answer. Sherlock was just using her as a sounding board, but she offered anyway.

“Nothing.” Sherlock hung up.

Molly tired to watch TV but turned it off after half an hour having not followed anything that happened. She got up and made some tea but then didn’t want to drink it.

An hour later she gave up and called John.

“Hello?” he sounded vaguely surprised.

“Hi, I just,” Molly started and stopped. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. She’d just wanted to check that he was alright.

“Are you okay?” John asked after a moment. And now she’d worried him.

She racked her brains to come up with something worthwhile to say. “I’m, yeah, you know, I’m fine.” She paused. “You?”

“I’m alright, Molly.”

She nodded before remembering that he couldn’t see her. “Good,” she said, just a little too loudly and winced at herself. “Well, okay then. Bye.”

John paused. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. I just thought I’d check you were. Fine, I mean.”

“Okay, well, thanks.”

Molly sighed. “That’s okay. See you around.”

“Yeah, goodnight, Molly.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Molly tried to convince herself that Sherlock was probably just worrying because he couldn’t be there to physically make sure John was alright. It didn’t work.

***

John was used to people staring. After the fall, when he left the house he noticed people eyeing him as they walked by, or staring at him as he did the shopping. He tried his best to ignore it. Only a very few of them came up to him. He had managed to hit only a couple of them.

It was more unusual now. People tended to stare at him as though unable to place him. Sometimes they even waved before realising that they didn’t actually know him. That was why he didn’t notice it at first. He’d grown used to not making eye contact as he walked down the street. But, he was becoming more and more sure that someone was following him.

Whoever it was, was very good. He was never able to catch them at it. He’d started taking sudden corners or doubling back on himself. It seemed to shake whoever it was for a short time but after a few minutes he’d start to feel it again.

He considered telling Mycroft, then dismissed it as a stupid thing to do. Mycroft would think he was cracking up. Which was quite possible.

Two weeks later when it was still happening he considered telling Lestrade. But, he chickened out before he finished writing the text. Lestrade would probably just think he was imagining it. Trying to pretend that things were still the same as when Sherlock was alive. Nothing happened to John Watson. They happened to Sherlock and he’d just been around for the ride.

All the same he took to locking the flat door at night. For all the good it would do.

***

 

“There have been stirrings in the less savoury sections of society.” Mycroft wasn’t sitting in his normal seat. He stood with his back to John looking out of the window. It was dark outside and the street lights did little to illuminate the street. John wondered what he was looking at. Or for.

John smiled. “Aren’t there always?”

“Not like this.” Mycroft pulled the curtain back again. “I think that something is coming.”

John shifted. “What sort of thing?”

Mycroft turned to look at him. “I don’t know.”

Neither of them mentioned Sherlock. John wondered if he would have been able to tell them then and there what it meant or if he’d have taken a couple of days before announcing the answer. It was funny how missing Sherlock came in such different waves. Mostly he just missed having him in the flat. Or the way he smiled or rolled his eyes at everyone’s stupidity.

Stupid that it hadn’t occurred to him that bad things could happen now he was gone. That no one would be there to stop them.

“But, you’re looking into it, aren’t you?” John said instead of all the things he wanted to.

Mycroft smiled without humour. “I am doing what I can.”

John noticed that he looked sad. He got up and made the tea.

As he left Mycroft stood in the doorway. He was half in shadow so John couldn’t make out his face. “John, you will... You are taking all necessary precautions, aren’t you?”

John frowned. “Why would I need to do that?”

Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella. “These are dangerous times. A few extra precautions cannot possibly hurt.”

He was gone before John had time to say anything more.

***

Lestrade sighed and put his phone away. Mycroft had taken to texting him for updates. Updates on what he wasn’t really sure. Hollander was certainly back in the country, but as far as anyone could tell he was being a model citizen. Not so much as a traffic offence.

He also wasn’t in contact with any of his previous associates. His home phone was being tapped but that was probably Mycroft.

Lestrade turned back to the mounting pile of files on his desk. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had so many convictions to push through. Even when Sherlock was at the height of his powers they were making, at most, two big arrests a month. Now it seemed that the criminals were tripping over themselves to get caught.

He sighed. There was something nagging at the back of his mind. He pushed it away. It was just the part that was used to working with Sherlock. Not everything had to mean something. If there was an underlying cause it probably just Moriarty being dead. Things would calm down. They always did.

***

Sherlock looked at the dead body and smiled. He didn’t have long but he didn’t need it. Another former associate of Moriarty’s. One of the few left, he was sure. He ran a hand over the man’s jaw bone and frowned.

He moved aside the collar of his shirt. There, tiny and partially healed was a wound. He looked closer then pulled back suddenly.

Stupid. So, so stupid.

And then it all clicked terrifyingly into place.

***

John made his way around the kitchen slowly. His leg had started to hurt. Not much and nothing like as bad as when he came back from Afghanistan. But it had started to ache. He probably just needed to get some exercise.

The door opened and closed downstairs. Mrs Hudson back from the shops. He wondered if she’d remembered...

No, there were heavy footsteps on the stairs. More than one person.

He looked up just as the door was flung backwards. His heart stopped for a moment as five men with ski masks came through the door. He dropped the cup he was holding.


	6. The end

Sherlock was running. He didn’t stop until he reached 221B Baker Street. He dimly heard someone scream as he ran up the stairs but didn’t slow down to investigate. His heart skipped when he saw the door hanging off its hinges. But the flat was empty and he stared wildly around.

There had been a struggle. Three... No, five men had been here. They were armed. John had been in the kitchen when they arrived. He walked to stand next to the table.

Someone was shouting behind him from the doorway. He ignored it.

There’d been quite a fight. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. John hadn’t been easy to subdue. He followed the progress of the men back into the living room. They’d dragged John... unconscious by this time, out of the flat and down the stairs.

Someone grabbed his arm. He stared at them for a few seconds unseeing.

“Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock, it’s you.” Mrs Hudson’s eyes were full of tears.

He didn’t have time for this. “Yes,” he barked. “I’m not dead, happy days. Now shut up and let me think.”

He ran back down the stairs and paused. Where would they have taken him? He bent down to examine the foot print just inside the door. He turned his head from side to side as he ran through Hollander’s list of assets for a match. Then he smiled.

***  
Lestrade looked at his phone with a sigh. Mycroft was really starting to-

He nearly dropped the phone. He paused for a moment; his head spinning and heart racing. Then he ran from his office.

***

John’s head hurt. No, absolutely everything hurt. He felt like he’d fallen down the stairs into the path of an oncoming bus. It took him a moment before he mustered the energy to open his eyes.

He immediately wished that he hadn’t. He was in a large room, a disused warehouse by the looks of it. His hands were fastened securely to the chair he was sitting on, as were his legs. His hands and feet were already numb.

“Ah, Mr Watson, so nice of you to join us.” A man in a suit smiled coldly at him.

John glared at him through the pounding in his head. “Doctor. It’s Doctor Watson.”

The man nodded. “Of course. These things matter, don’t they? Titles? Very important.”

John tugged fruitlessly as the ropes but didn’t answer.

“Now, now, Dr Watson,” the man continued and wagged a finger at him. “Enough of that. You know very well you’re not going anywhere. Even if you could get out of the ropes one of my men would shoot you before you even stood up.”

John sighed and stopped moving. “Alright, but what could you possibly want with me?”

The man smiled again. “Now, don’t be so modest.”

John was getting annoyed. There was no one coming to get him. No one to swoop in and save the day. This wasn’t part of some complex case that Sherlock was working on. He was probably going to die.

After everything. After Afghanistan, after all the cases with Sherlock, after Moriarty, he was going to die alone in a warehouse at the hands of someone he’d never seen before. He just wanted to get it over with. He didn’t want to talk about it.

“Look, I have no clue why I’m here, which I’m sure you know. So, just get on with whatever you have planned and cut all the small talk.”

The man nodded ever so slightly. John didn’t see the punch coming before it connected with his jaw. The power of it knocked the chair backwards and he landed painfully on his wrist.

He was pulled roughly up and the chair was righted again. The man looked angry. That was better. Make him angry. Get it over with faster.

“Not very polite.” The man smoothed his suit down. “I’m not going to kill you, Dr Watson. Not yet. I’m going to torture you. Find out what you know. Then I’m going to kill you.”

John’s stomach turned over. “I don’t know anything that could possibly be of interest to you.”

“I doubt that,” said the man slowly. “After all that time with the Holmes brothers? After Moriarty left the key code in your flat? No, I think you know enough.”

John actually laughed. Well, that was about right.

***

Sherlock crept towards the warehouse. He’d managed to disable a few guards patrolling the outside with ease. The state of security services these days was frankly appalling.

He looked through one of the dirty windows. John was tied to a chair. He was alive. Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He counted three men, including Hollander before ducking back down. There would certainly be at least three more, probably stood back in the shadows.

He wondered if he could wait for Lestrade. He was certain he would come but he couldn’t be sure how quickly. He looked through the window again.He pulled out a small handgun and checked that it was loaded.

The two men either side of John fell to the ground dead and he was pointing his gun at Hollander before anyone knew that the door had even opened.

To his credit Hollander didn’t look as surprised as he might. “Sherlock Holmes,” he breathed, “we didn’t expect you to come to my little party.”

Sherlock smiled thinly. He didn’t take his eyes off the other man. Didn’t dare look at John. He did note that he didn’t speak. Didn’t cry out in surprise like he thought he might. “Rumours of my demise, etc etc,” Sherlock said slowly. He moved toward John, stood between him and Hollander. “Very clever. Very clever indeed,” he said gesturing around.

“Yes,” the man smiled. “Are you expecting me to tell you my dastardly plan now?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Let me tell you. With Moriarty dead suddenly there’s space for another consulting criminal.”

Hollander’s mouth twitched.

“But, you can’t set up shop, just like that. You need to let everyone feel completely sure that his entire criminal web had fallen apart.”

Hollander didn’t answer but a smile was forming very slowly across his face.

“You’ve been tipping the police off for months; using the chaos of his death to mask that someone’s been pulling the strings. Once you were sure that there was no one left that could possibly take his place or figure out what was happening you would be free to open for business.”

Hollander was grinning. “Very good, Sherlock. And Dr Watson?”

Sherlock felt anger contort his face. “A message. With John dead the last of Moriarty’s plans would be completely finished. The king is dead.”

“Long live the king,” Hollander finished and spread his arms wide. There were more men walking toward them from out of the shadows. All their guns were trained on Sherlock. “Quite excellent, Mr Holmes, I’m impressed. Of course, I’m not Moriarty. He was a fool. Playing games, hoping to get your attention. Hoping to get himself killed. I will not be making such a mistake.”

Sherlock cocked his gun.

Hollander shook his head. “I think not. Kill him.”

Gun fire rang through the warehouse. Sherlock braced and it took a moment for him to realise that he hadn’t been shot. Then, Lestrade was running through the door, followed by several other officers.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Hollander looked shocked before someone was shouting, telling him to get on his knees. More people were running passed him to John. Kneeling and untying him.

He hadn’t said a word through the entire exchange.

Lestrade stood in the middle of the warehouse staring at Sherlock. “Good God,” he said eventually. “It really is you.”

Sherlock glanced over at him. “I said so in my text didn’t I?”

Sherlock couldn’t make himself look at John. There would be time later. Instead, he followed with grim satisfaction as Hollander was led away by Lestrade. He watched him being manhandled into a police car and let himself smile.

Finally, he turned to go into the warehouse. But, then Lestrade was there, blocking his way.

“Sherlock,” he said, “where the hell have you been? And what’s your connection to Hollander?”

Sherlock ignored him and tried to go around him, but Lestrade wouldn’t let him. Through gritted teeth he said, “I don’t have a connection to him, other than he just tried to kill me and my flatmate.”

Lestrade smiled humourlessly. “Which brings us to the question of how he can kill someone who’s funeral I attended just a few months ago.”

Sherlock huffed. “It’s none of your business.”

Lestrade put a hand on his chest. He looked angry. “You’ll have to come in for questioning. I mean it this time; a full debrief, or I will bring you in officially.”

Sherlock shrugged and said, “I’ll see when I can fit you in.”

He looked passed Lestrade at the car that was just pulling up. A moment later, Mycroft got out. Sherlock sighed. “Did you call him?”

Lestrade looked briefly over his shoulder. “Yes,” he snapped. “I thought your own brother ought to know you’re back from the dead.”

Mycroft stood for a few moments staring at Sherlock before turning and going into the warehouse.

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and smiled. “Yes, well, good point. In fact, I had better go and see him.”

But, Lestrade gently pushed Sherlock back into place. “No,” he said and stared at him levelly.

In the end Sherlock grunted his annoyance and said, “I think I preferred it when I was dead. Less paperwork.”

Annoyingly Lestrade recognised this for the acquiescence that it was and half smiled at him and moved aside. “I’m glad you’re back.” He seemed to mean it.

Sherlock hurried back to the warehouse bracing himself for a confrontation with John. But, the chair where he had been seated was empty. He spun around but he couldn’t see him. Instead Mycroft was stood a little into the vast space, looking maddeningly clam.

“Where is he?” Sherlock snapped, panic rising in his chest.

“He left, little brother,” Mycroft said softly.

“Left? To go where?” Sherlock didn’t like the look Mycroft was giving him. It was somewhere between annoyance and concern.

“Home, I believe.” Sherlock was half way across the room before Mycroft spoke again. “I wouldn’t follow him just yet, if I were you.”

Sherlock stopped but refused to look around. He hated that condescending voice. “And why’s that? I just saved his life, you would think-”

“Not even you are that stupid, Sherlock.” Mycroft was walking toward him. Sherlock could hear the soft padding of expensive shoes over the dusty floor. Hand-made. In Italy judging by the sound. “He needs time. He’s spent the last eight months trying to come to terms with your death. That you’ve kept yourself hidden from him all this time – he sees it as a betrayal.”

Sherlock balled his hands into fists. “How do you suddenly know so much about it?”

“You mean about him?” Mycroft sounded amused. Sherlock hadn’t missed this. Not one bit. “I’ve learnt a great deal over these last months, brother. If you’ll take some advice-”

“From you? I doubt it,” Sherlock interrupted. He still hadn’t looked around.

Mycroft ignored him. “You’ll give him some time. Do not expect to be able to bulldoze your way back in. It won’t work. And anyway,” there was a slight hesitation, most unusual for Mycroft, “he deserves better than that."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

***

The first time it happened John closed the door in his face. The second and third too. Unlike his brother, Sherlock Holmes didn’t wait weeks between visits. The fourth time he knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street it was just under 24 hours since John has quietly slipped out of the back of the warehouse. Mycroft had sent a car after him that took him home, which he was grateful for. His head was still pounding and he felt weak and sick.

Sherlock was fidgeting on the front step, not quite looking at him. John looked at him for a long time. “Are you here for your things?”

Sherlock gave him that half smile he’d always loved. “In a manner of speaking. Am I to be allowed in this time?”

John didn’t have the energy to argue. He stood aside. Sherlock brushed passed him. John’s breath caught, which annoyed him immensely.

Sherlock was standing in the living room by the time John got up the stairs.

“Your left wrist is fractured,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t reply. The image of Sherlock standing in the flat was surreal. He really didn’t know what to say. He knew he was angry. Knew that Sherlock had probably done what he had for the best of reasons. Knew that he could pretend that he wasn’t going to forgive him for only so long. Knew that everyone else probably already had. Knew that Sherlock knew everything that he was thinking. Knew that Sherlock would have predicted everything he was about to do and say. That made him angry too.

“You’ve been following me,” his voice was shaking. He cursed himself for being so weak. He should have asked Mycroft how he stopped his doing it.

“Among others,” Sherlock said.

John took in his face for the first time. Really looked at it. He looked tired. He was even paler and thinner than before the fall. “You mean other people have been following me or that you’ve been following other people?”

“Both actually.” Sherlock seemed to be holding himself very still.

John knew that it must take a lot for him not to launch into a tirade about how he’d saved John’s life and how everything he had done was actually ingenious and John should stop being so childish. He supposed that he ought to give him some credit for that. John nodded thoughtfully and looked down at the dirty carpet. “Things,” he stopped and balled his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms, “Things can’t go back to how they were before, Sherlock.”

He chanced a look up. Sherlock’s face was frozen in place. He hated that stupid closed off look. “I’ve changed. I thought you were dead.”

“John, this is ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “Can’t you see what I did for you all? I faked my own death, I pulled down an international criminal ring, the size of which you cannot possibly imagine and I did it,” Sherlock waved his hand in his direction in annoyance, “I did it for you.”

John sighed. “That’s as it may be, but I’ve spent the last eight months mourning you!”

Sherlock got his agitated look. The one that he usually only got when he didn’t have any cases or experiments on the go. He ran a hand through his hair. It was shorter than John was used to. It suited him. Bastard.

“Look, John,” Sherlock was using his ‘I’m being very reasonable, now just agree with me’ voice, “I know that these months have been hard on you but that’s no reason to just-”

“Just what, Sherlock?” John snapped suddenly.

Sherlock looked surprised. “Get all over emotional about it. It was merely a matter of rationale thinking. I had no choice. You would be dead if I hadn’t and so would Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”

John nodded. “I know.”

Sherlock relaxed and a smile spread across his face. “There, now shall we have some dinner?”

John was almost as surprised as Sherlock when he lurched forward, grabbed Sherlock by the shirt and roughly pinned him to the wall. “You complete arsehole! Do you even care what you’ve put us all through?” His hands were hurting from how hard he was gripping the material of his shirt, but he didn’t loosen them. When Sherlock didn’t answer straight away he shook him, banging him roughly into the wall.

Sherlock seemed too surprised to struggle. He looked John in the eye for a long time. Then he almost visibly sagged. “Yes,” he said it so quietly that John almost missed it, “yes, and I’m sorry.”

John’s hands loosened but he didn’t back off. “You’re a complete and utter bastard. Lestrade’s been torturing himself over this and so has your brother. You know that Mycroft really only had ... has... you.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “Very touching that you both care so deeply for each other, I’m sure. But my relationship with my brother is really none of your business.”

“Oh grow up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Make me.”

John hadn’t realised they were so close until that moment. He could feel Sherlock pressed against him, the length of his body hot against his own. He swallowed slowly.

Sherlock had gone very still and was looking at John intently. “When you say things can’t go back to the way they were before...”

“I mean,” John said slowly, leaning closer to Sherlock, his breath ghosting along the other man’s cheek, “I don’t know if I can trust you again.” He pulled back abruptly.

Sherlock didn’t move for a long time. Then he nodded, and took a deep breath and smoothed both hands down his suit. “I understand.” It looked like it had taken a lot for him to say. John wondered how long he’d been gearing himself up for this conversation. “It will take a long time for you to rebuild your faith in me. Since I’ve,” he paused and his eyes flicked away, “I’ve been away, you have begun to move on. Construct a life without me.”

John watched him impassively.

“But, I would appreciate it if,” Sherlock looked at him and gave a lopsided grin, “I would very much appreciate it, if you would allow me to try and make it up to you.”

John nodded slowly. Sherlock relaxed noticeably, but John noted the slight downturn of his lips and slump of his shoulders.

He didn’t let himself think about it, he just said the words that came into his head, “You could start my kissing me.”

Sherlock couldn’t have looked more surprised if John has punched him. “What?”

John squared his shoulders. “You heard me.”

Sherlock was obviously very carefully not reacting. He was calculating all the possible outcomes of the request, probably looking for double meanings or traps.

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “it’s been eight months. I’ve been thinking about nothing but you for eight months. That, let alone all the months we’ve been living together pretending that we don’t,” John was annoyed at himself for faltering now. He tried again. “That there isn’t anything there; it’s just madness. I mean, I should know, my therapist tells me often enough that I just need to-”

He didn’t finish because Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his. When he pulled back he smiled. One of his full voltage smiles that were usually reserved for when he’d solved a particularly tricky case. “Like that?” he asked.

John felt an answering smile tug at his lips. “A bit like that. Could do with some more practice. I think-”

Sherlock’s lips cut him off again. John managed to reach out and shut the door to the flat before wrapping both arms around Sherlock and pulling him as close as he could.

***

“Thank you.” Mycroft looked down at the note he had just been handed. He read it through twice before looking at the aide that had given it to him. “Cancel all my planned visits to Baker Street in the next four, no, better make it six weeks, would you? I suspect they’ll be wanting some privacy.”

He waited until the aide had left before smiling. He allowed himself a full thirty seconds before he picked up the folder on Middle Eastern security and began reading again.

The End


End file.
